Water or fire, which shall it be? Burn or
drown, Icarus—please select one. Will the
curiosity carry you to your
grave, or will your father’s words echo through
your mind as you soar through the skies? Oh, boy,
you know the rules; fly too high and your wings
will burn, too low and water will claim them.
Icarus, you are still so young, basking
in the tranquil sea of youth. The words sink
to the depths of the sea and you fall with
them—your wings burn bright. What a sight to see;
a magnificent bright light in the sky!
People look on in awe, as your life is
lost. It seems, Icarus, that neither fire
nor water is worthy of desire.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
When I look up at the stars, aligning to
devise magnificent patterns,
my mind rewinds to the way your
delicate fingers would trace your thoughts upon my back,
fabricating our love.
I reminisce how your fingers entwined
with mine,
and the way they wrapped around my neck;
I yearn for how
they would dig into my skin—harsh
but with loving intent—
and the way they would hold me when my body
trembled with despair. I miss
the way your fingers touched me. I miss it.
I miss it.
I miss it.
When we connected it was
beautiful—
just like the stars.
After all,
it only takes two to form a
constellation.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
The sun was so bright that day,
cascading across your delicate
skin.
And the moon was so high that day,
lighting the sky;
you’d sworn it was bright enough
that you could see into another universe,
and you told me—you speculated—
others lives within that universe,
where the Greek gods and goddesses
ruled,
and life was tranquil.
With euphoria in your eyes, you’d said,
“I wish I could join them.”
I’d laughed and agreed, but if only I had
known.
It was cold the next morning;
empty; bitterness ate away at my
shell.
Your façade had melted—the constellations in your
eyes had burned out.
But you continued to smile, force and falsely,
and told me you needed a walk,
“I’ll be back soon.”
Needless to say, you did not return.
In your place was crumpled apology,
and a regretful news report.
I couldn’t see the moon the next night.
I shut the blinds and closed my eyes,
whispering your name over and over and
over.
I hope you joined them;
I hope you’re happy
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
Do not fall asleep:
closed eyes create an open door
that I leak through, leaving your
subconscious screaming my
name.
And the sound will simmer,
As the light becomes dimmer—
where have I gone?
It’s quiet.
I’m a whisper.
I’m transparent,
a transient image in your mind.
I’m
gone.
The darkness of the room envelopes you;
your dreams are my coffin,
and you’re still blissfully oblivious
that my grave has been dug,
my coffin has been dropped,
and the each fading memory buries me until
I’m six feet under.
For you, life was tranquil
and I was merely a pill
that you could have whenever
you needed to feel something—
anything.
But you no longer delve into artificial feelings;
your façade has cracked,
and there’s no turning back.
The lights are out;
darkness steals you.
Your eyes shut,
your breathing slows,
the door opens.
I’m gone.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
My head is overloaded;
My thoughts are the bullet,
And my brain is a hapless victim.
Nothing matters:
Not life, not death, not you, nor me—
Nothing matters.
The doctors call this an
Existential crisis;
‘you are in the midst of believing
Your life has no external meaning,’
He says, ‘don’t worry, you’ll get over it.’
In the hurricane of my reality,
I crack; my thoughts ****** my brain,
And I say goodbye to tranquillity,
And you with your fragile frame.
I’m not sad—I’m too lost feel
Grief. Instead, I realise this is what I need.
To part ways with our partial ordeal.
I hope happiness is what you bleed.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
There is a difference between loving
Someone and being infatuated
With the euphoria they bring to you.
I don’t mean loving or lusting for them,
I mean the genuine tranquillity
Their mere presence brings you; all you want is
their company. I thought I was aware
of the difference, but now I have learnt.
I thought I loved you, yet I loved to feel
like being on top of the world with you.
And now, like an addict, I yearn for it;
I want to feel invincible; selfish—
I know—but I regretfully crave you
Even though we are definitely through.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
We met drunkenly whilst basking in immaturity,
and we’ve vowed to remain
this way for the entirety of
our adventure.
Its bliss;
innocence and purity concealed into two people.
That kiss woke me up for the first time;
it was as though I was merely alive
but not living,
and you showed me the shinning
light.
I’m now new to the world,
and you’re teaching me how to feel.
Everything is becoming incredible;
colours transcended from mundane
to an indescribable vibrancy;
music sounds louder and laced
with passion,
food tastes like euphoria,
books are compiled with meanings
that I’m conquering as we trail deeper
into the depths of adventure.
I hope—no, I pray—
that we can perpetuate this feeling.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Every time I let the bottle
graze my lips,
my entire body
rocks with an unnerving feeling
of melancholy.
Nostalgia rattles my brain;
yearning wraps its icy fingers
around my heart.
Every inch of my body tingles with a
sensation that is begging for you.
I can feel you on my skin;
I can remember vividly
the way your fingers graze my arms,
neck, and stomach and…
I’m getting off track.
I’m drunk again—no surprise there, huh?
It’s about now, when I’m too many bottles down,
that you would try to grasp it from my hands,
or text me in concern.
But your message was only transience;
I never listened to you.
And now, as I’m too many bottles down,
I find myself missing your exasperating
complaints.
I wish you were here to tell me I’ve had too much
to drink.
And in return I would cry,
and cry, and cry,
and oh god, I would cry.
And I would tell you how much I miss you.
But too much has changed;
time is constantly against me;
my happiness has always been fleeting.
we’ve both grown and matured,
and our time together has expired.
I know if we tried
again,
we’d be as bitter as out of date milk.
And yet,
for some insane reason,
I still want us to try again.
I like to have someone to fall back
to when I’m indecisive and alone,
and alcohol pumps through my veins.
I miss you,
and I shouldn’t.
We’re done;
we have been for so long.
So why can’t I stop writing about you?
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
I
The way cigarette smoke
curls around our heads,
in the brisk night air,
is the way I want your arms
to wrap around my body
when it’s 3am
and I’m crying
because we’ve had too much to drink.
But instead,
I’m left with an empty cigarette pack
and a burning sensation on my back
where your hands should be.
II
People say that the more you say a word
the less it sounds real.
It’s 3am again,
and I’m struggling to sleep,
because every night I wake up
by mumbling your name repeatedly.
And the more I say it,
the more real it seems.
And sometimes it seems so real,
that I start to believe
if I open my eyes
you’ll be here.
III
There are so many things I want to say to you
but I never do,
because it’s better this way.
For you to not know
about these poems I write about you,
or how I can’t listen to that song
you showed me
without thinking of you,
or how my fingers yearn
for you delicate skin.
I’ll never mention how many beats
my heart skipped
when I saw you with someone else.
Because I’ve learnt by now
that some things are better kept a secret.
But maybe
I’ll reach for my phone
to tell you
that I’m on my sixth glass of whisky,
and it tastes like you.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
My back shouldn’t ache at this age;
neither should my wrists or
neck or knees.
Or heart.
Nothing should ache.
Life should be blissful
and all pain should be transient.
But it’s not.
And I can’t complain because someone
will point out that something is wrong with me
and the only thing worse than the
crippling pain in my body
is my crippling fear of anyone in the medical profession.
So I push it to the back of my mind;
forget the pain—
melt it with a pill,
distract myself,
forget that I’m more broken than I should be.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC